


sheer heart attack

by belgard



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Hotels, M/M, Mornings, a couple of hopeless romantics uwu 1!!!!!, anything for john deacon i love him sm, i say the word 'pretty' and 'beautiful' in this like 500 times, im legit going to cry, set in the seventies, there are some rly suggestive content here uwu, this is a ship made in actual ship heaven, whipped rog just because
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 15:10:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16725771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belgard/pseuds/belgard
Summary: when roger wakes up next to john, he wonders how his lover manages to appear so breathtaking even in the early morning.





	sheer heart attack

**Author's Note:**

> hey yall *sad y e e h a w* so Storytime: i went to see bo rhap like two/a week ago bc i wanted to see my childhood crush Dr Brian May on screen (even though i'm a deaky girl like tf) and what can i say he was honest to god So Fine (thank you mr gwilym lee ily) this is a fic in dedication to the beauty that the film was, even though it had a LOt of flaws *insert rant about how john deacon's intro to the band scene was cut like tf how could you* I hope you'll enjoy this tiny piece ily

 

 

 

Roger taps the lit end of his cigarette against the edge of the porcelain cup from the room service dinner they ordered last night, the action done rather gently—quite an odd feat, even for himself. The windows are opened, letting some of the hazy morning light seep into the room they’re in. Number 307. He sighs, breath swirling in the air. The ashes ripple, white and black, they disperse into tiny million pieces when just before they were one. The blue-grey smoke he let out disperse, flowing like gentle embroidered curls that never seem to end. This particular morning is lovely, he thinks.

 

 

Just perfect.

 

 

Roger sits back against the headboard of the hotel bed he’s on, inhaling the smoke as he watches the morning sky fall hazy with a tint of pretty marigold behind the rusty windows, scenery perfect for those with the lust for nostalgia. The birds are chirping, and on other days he’d find them vexing, but today they’re singing the prettiest song that Roger longs to hear all day. He runs a finger through his long blond hair, pushing the fringe back past his forehead. He then presses the end of cigarette against the cup, extinguishing it.

 

 

His glance shifts to the sleeping figure next to him, half engulfed in off-white sheets.

 

 

John.

 

 

It’s _John_ , he thinks, a smile slowly forming on his face. It’s John bloody Deacon, their little Deaky, their absolutely talented bassist, one of his bestest friends, one of the loveliest people he’s ever met, and all that he has in his mind is how the _fuck_ could he manage to land John? Whenever he thinks about it, it’s all he can focus on. Even now, he feels his own breath hitch just at the very sight of John, lying on his bed with no clothes on, just looking absolutely ethereal, out of this world, enchanting – in every sense. His lover is nothing like any other, he’s so, _so_ different from anyone Roger’s ever been with –  and he loves it – he loves _John,_ with the shockingly cheerful personality, bright and colourful, just with less saturation and screams muted shades. John with his tendency to be the worst romantic ever, which in turn made _Roger_ into a hopeless romantic as well, and his wishes to take everything slow yet sweetly demanding at the same time. Everything he says wonders Roger, even when he’s only saying mundane things like ‘I want to go and order some chicken nuggets,’ there’s just something oddly entertaining about everything that comes out of his mouth, and there are only a handful of people who has that effect on Roger.

 

 

John’s hair looks beautiful under this hazy light, bright and slightly curly and just enticing enough to touch. So Roger does, because John is all his, as unbelievable as that is. John’s eyelashes are ridiculously long, fanned out across his cheek like a pair of feathers, the lightest kind, the prettiest kind. His fair cheeks are bright scarlet, the silk-like surface littered with dots of light freckles. They’ve always been _insufferable_ because of how adorable John looks with his cheeks flushed, his hands fumbling, lips tripping over his own words in a feeble attempt of a response to some kind of suggestive remark that Roger often says. It’s always fun to tease him, rile him up until he whines and pleads. At the end, Roger always gets what he wants anyways—a shy little smile, the prettiest.

 

 

Fucking gorgeous, he thinks to himself, the sight before him resembling that of a painting. Shrugging, Roger takes the camera John has brought with him last night that’s on the bedside table and points its at the scenery of John, pretty and serene, yet just unaware of it. _Click_! Roger presses on the button and the faint clicking noise disperses into the air.

 

 

John is breathing out, slowly, nuzzling his cheek against the pillow beneath him. Roger’s own breath comes out shaky, and he curses himself inwardly. It’s strange how much a person can affect another person’s entire composure, how the world seems to shift just because of _one_ look that one person gave. It’s maddening, how John’s behaviour always makes him want to hold John in his arms and just never let go.

 

 

Roger can’t resist it. He brushes John’s hair away from his face.

 

 

It’s blocking the beauty underneath, and he can’t have that.

 

 

John pouts his lips, shaking his head. “Roger…” he mumbles, and Roger, startled,  immediately retracts his hand.

 

 

He smiles, eyes wandering over the sleeping figure in an attempt to find one imperfection.

 

 

There are many, but on him they look pretty. _Beautiful_. Roger always has the urge to land a kiss onto each and every one of them, having John’s hands and blunt nails clutching on his body as if Roger would ever let him fall. He wouldn’t—not in his lifetime, he wouldn’t. Roger would never let his lover fall out of his arms, even when he’s desperate for it, sobbing or whining, he’ll always hold John as if it’s the last time he could ever do so.

 

 

Roger lifts a hand, and strokes the side of John’s neck with the tip of his finger lightly. He doesn’t want to wake him up, not when he looks this gorgeous, this peaceful.

 

 

John tilts his head a little, as if he’s aware, to let Roger’s touch trail there a little longer, further.

 

 

The dip of his lover’s shoulders are unbelievably gentle and pale, and Roger wants to smile at the thought of their escapades when the sun is already gone, with him pressing kisses all over John’s neck and shoulders until there are purple-red flowers blossoming on the surface. Beautiful, the sight is.

 

 

Roger almost jumps when he feels John’s hand gripping his arm lightly.

 

 

“Morning, baby,” Roger greets with a smile, his voice a little scratchy. His heart does little palpitations when he sees the younger man look up at him with a dream-like smile. His smiles are always genuine, gently and a little coy sometimes, but Roger loves it – adores it – along with the other members, especially Freddie, who has the terrible tendency to pinch John’s lightly-freckled cheeks whenever he does so. ‘ _Fucking adorable, you are!’_ Freddie would say with a laugh and a flourish, because their Deaky really is _that_ adorable.

 

 

“Rog,” he trails off, his slight movements resembling those of a feline’s, and even in such display of innocence Roger finds him enticing, irresistible. But another part of his mind finds him painfully sweet, and all he wants to do is hug John, make sure nothing can ever hurt him, and make sure he eats. Roger lets out a huff of breath, deflating when it comes out shaky at the touch of John’s skin against his.

 

 

Fuck _,_ he curses inwardly. When he looks down at himself, he finds his fingers trembling in just the slightest.

 

 

“Roger…” John repeats, his voice falling a little deeper, a little languid, and it’s _far_ more attractive than it’s supposed to be. His touch on Roger’s arm slowly falls, trailing a line of scorching fire from his arm down to his elbow, and at last to his hand. When Roger shifts his gaze from John’s touch on his arm, and onto his lover’s eyes, John’s looking at him with half-lidded eyes; such a sight that Roger could _never_ resist.  “If you’re gonna touch me,” he darts out his tongue briefly, almost sending Roger into cardiac arrest,  “touch me like you mean it.”

 

 

Roger blinks for a moment, and John tilts his head back against the pillows – he’s being far _too_ relaxed and it’s seriously making Roger nervous even though they’ve been together for _two_ years – as if he’s offering himself without an ounce of hesitance in his being.

 

 

He leans closer, pressing his lips onto John’s neck, feeling the other man sigh in bliss. He just keeps on peppering little kisses on the soft skin, feeling his lover’s chest falling and rising gently, as if it’s affecting him as much as it’s affecting Roger. John’s eyes wander all over, looking up at the ceiling with tired eyes, the corners of his lips pulled up in a little smile.

 

 

Roger isn’t quite satisfied with that, not really.

 

 

He bites on John’s neck, and the next thing he knows, John is biting on his bottom lip tightly, eyes closed, his back slightly arching off the mattress. Roger almost groans at the sight, but he simply smiles against the crook of the bassist’s neck, feeling the pulse underneath thrumming wildly, frantic in a frenzy. The blond’s eyes travel up to gaze upon his lover’s face, calm and sweet, just like his demeanour. The thing about him is that John never seems to understand nor realise how charming he is to other people, just not in the most conventional way—but he _is_ wonderful and attractive, and his quiet disposition only fuels that. 

 

 

John’s hand slowly travel up to run itself through Roger’s fair tresses, messing it up even more. The brown-haired man only hums, perhaps feeling rather pleasant. Roger’s hand holds the side of his lover’s throat carefully, pressing a little into it to coax another reaction out of the other.

 

 

And he achieves it.

 

 

John suddenly grips on his hair, tugging it rather harshly in surprise and perhaps pleasure, rendering the elder to frantically try and pull himself together because it isn’t supposed to feel _this_ good. John is always full of surprises, and Roger is more than happy to unravel each and every one of his carefully-tied, and carefully-wrapped secrecies.

 

 

“Deaky,” says Roger, a little breathless. They need to stop this little push-and-pull before they get carried away, really. “D’you reckon we should go back to Fred and Brian’s?”

 

 

John tilts his head, a little confused. Roger almost (almost!) lets out a dreamy sigh at the sight of John, with his cheeks flushed scarlet and lips bitten raw, turning them rose-like and pretty. “Hm?”

 

 

“It’s almost nine,” Roger replies gently, not caring at all about how sickeningly-sweet his voice sounds even to his own ears. He doesn’t care at all—he’d give John the entire world if he asks him to. His lover pouts at that, and Roger can only smile before he eventually presses the tip of his finger against John’s plush bottom lip, tugging on it carefully. There’s something oddly alluring about John’s lips, and perhaps Roger is simply being biased and (absolutely) head-over-heels for the bassist, but to him they are among the prettiest things he has ever seen in his life. Especially when they’re bitten and turn vibrant scarlet—now that is nothing other than irresistible.

 

 

John smiles for a moment, before he grabs the blond’s wrist with his left hand and pushes his finger a little, in which he licks on the tip before he gently bites onto it. Roger’s eyes widen immediately, and his finger stills, completely petrified.

 

 

“I’d like to stay here for a little more, Rog,” mumbles John, closing his eyes with the gentlest of smiles. “May I?”

 

 

Roger laughs, befuddled as he shakes his head at his lover’s ridiculous antics. John raises his hand and places it right on top of Roger’s head, ruffling the blond hair underneath his palm.

 

 

Roger closes his eyes. It doesn't even matter, at the moment, all that is happening in the world outside of their hotel room. For some reason, John makes him forget everything, just for a second, and it's the bliss he always craves each day, each night from every tiring practise and ridiculously-stressing songwriting and intricate directing. He gets tired, they all do, and Roger often wonders how John can manage to make him feel like he's at home every single time he does something as simple as touching Roger's hand, albeit rather shyly. It all doesn't matter, for a moment, because all he can focus on is John, and how peaceful John makes him feel. Roger wants to make him feel like that too, and he tries his best, every single day. 

 

 

“You don’t even have to ask, love,” Roger replies, brushing John’s hair back. His brown-haired lover grins at him, and there's _this_ little thing that Roger loves more than anything: John's eyes always smile along with his lips. It's a lovely, lovely sight, and it's heart-wrenchingly adorable that Roger just wants to coo at his own boyfriend for making his heart hurt. “Anything you want to do, is all fine to me.”

 

 

His lover sighs against his touch, and he closes his eyes before he travels back into slumber, leaving Roger to himself in this early morning, smiling like an idiot and swaying quietly because of how surreal this all is. There's a kind of simplicity in something just like this, a quiet morning in a hotel room with just the two of them, one sleeping and the other one awake, yet Roger feels his head going into a haze whenever he looks at John, and his stomach does little flips whenever the younger man sends him shy tiny smiles that mean more than anything in the universe because the way John makes other people feel around him is oddly enigmatic enough that Roger kind of believes that his boyfriend is an angel in disguise. 

 

Out of nowhere and pulling the blond right out of his reverie, John's hand suddenly sticks out from beneath the sheets and places itself on top of Roger's, intertwining them together in a way that warms Roger's heart like a fireplace. When Roger looks at him, he only turns his head to face the other way - away from Roger - as unbelievable as it is. Roger just quietly grins, thinking that this whole situation is absolutely bonkers, yet it brings him joy like nothing else. 

 

Roger brushes his thumb against the soft skin of John's cheek, feeling his own breath catching in his throat.

 

 

John is absolutely _beautiful_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> y e e t


End file.
